


This Thing We Do

by elstaplador



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Community: femslash_today, Darkroom, F/F, Overthinking, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/elstaplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the darkroom. Partly about photography. But partly not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Thing We Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the femslash_today porn battle, June 2009: http://community.livejournal.com/femslash_today/248472.html. Prompt: 'This Thing We Do'.

Zoe could tell you about this thing Isobel does, if you would let her speak in terms of photons and silver nitrate, of lenses and light-sensitive paper. She can marvel, with 21st century superiority, at the ingenuity of the primitive equipment. She has learned the jargon from Isobel, and can speak of developer and fixer, of enlargers and tripods. But even Zoe is fascinated by the sight of an image appearing ghostlike on white paper, darkening in its bath of chemicals rocked by Isobel's expert hand. She has no words for the magic of the pictures that Isobel produces, cannot speak of the art that she sees in those arrangements of black and white. She cannot say why Isobel's work is good, but it is so, and she is content to let it be so.

Zoe could tell you about this thing they do, the two of them, if you would let her speak in terms of hormones and arousal, of organs and nerve endings. But she has no words for the wonder of the moment when, darkroom work finished for the night, Isobel turns to her and, wordless, kisses her luxuriously. She cannot say how intoxicating it is when the sharp reek of the developer mingles with a smell that is all human, all woman, all Isobel. She has no words for the mystery of pale bodies bathed in red light, the sound of the steady flow of water (washing the new prints) quickened by Isobel's excited breathing. She cannot describe the thrill of Isobel's cool hands on her warm body, the beauty of blonde hair in the gloom. She cannot say why it moves her to the centre of her very being, this thing they do, but this is the way it is, and she is content to let it be so.


End file.
